


The Adventures of Leonardo da Sneezi

by soniclipstick (veriscence)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Attempt at Humor, Bucky is a little shit, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Crack, Genius Tony Stark, Irish Steve Rogers, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Referenced Past Attempt at Suicide, Slow Burn, Steve is a little shit, Steve owns a devil Cat, That he's allergic to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veriscence/pseuds/soniclipstick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>… and his pet human, Steve.</p><p>This is the story of how Steve Rogers and Tony Stark fell in love due to a fortunate series of extraordinary events, including but not limited to: the courtship of a cat and his beloved tree, the drinking of much paint water, and an entire pharmacy worth of allergy medications.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures of Leonardo da Sneezi

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to…
> 
> CallipygianGoldfish for betaing and cheerleading, you’re my hero. Also thanks to shighola for New York-picking, MadameThreepwood for ‘cat’-picking, and UniqueB for the tough love and messages telling me to get off my ass and write the damn thing, woman. 
> 
> Also thanks to Josh, the hospital cat at SeeSpital Kilchberg for being the model for da Sneezi. You’re a thousand times kinder than da Sneezi is, and I love you a lot — even though you make me sneeze. 
> 
> Please hover over the Irish Gaelic for translation:)
> 
> Heed the warnings in the tags please.

Steve is putting up missing posters of his cat Leo when his cell phone starts blaring. When the fireman with a booming Scandinavian accent tells him that his pet has been found, Steve breathes a sigh of relief and reminds himself to thank Bucky for getting Leo the fancy cat collar with all of Steve’s contact information. Then, as per Mr. ‘call-me-Thor’ Odinson’s directions, he makes his way to 890 Fifth Avenue — the famous Stark Mansion.

Steve squeezes past the ever-present paparazzi to the front gate, where a dark-haired fire-fighter waits for him. Steve shows him his driver’s licence, and the fire-fighter takes his sweet time identifying him before drolly introducing himself as Loki Laufeyson. He jerks his head towards the gate, and Steve walks in.

“Is Leo alright?” Steve asks, taking two steps for every one of Loki’s just to keep up.

“Have a look for yourself,” Loki says. He points out a large puppy of a man who is sprawled on the grass lawn, seemingly happy to except the wince-worthy mauling that Steve’s cat is handing out. “My brother, Thor. I believe you spoke to him on the phone.”

“Greetings!”

“Sorry,” Loki says. “He was dropped as a child. Multiple times.”

Steve has the sneaky feeling that it may have been Loki who did the dropping. “Hi,” Steve says to Thor before scrambling towards his feline child. Leo’s experience with the outside world so far has been limited to Steve’s fire escape and the front steps of his apartment building. Steve is no stranger to coming home and finding Leo sitting by the front door, demanding silently but loud enough for Steve to hear ‘what took you so long’, ‘where’s the damn tuna’ and ‘how could you forget to close the window before you left, Dad? You know I can’t resist making my way out and then sitting here like the scaredy cat I am until you come home’. Until this time, when Steve had some home, and Leo had decided to come meet him, likely smelling the cat treats in his grocery bag. That was of course when a speeding cab had spooked him, and Leo had taken off like he’d seen the neighbour’s Doberman. “He’s never been so far from home before.”

Thor stands up and walks over to Steve, handing him the prodigal feline. Leo immediately crawls into Steve’s jacket. “Well, he definitely found himself a nice hiding place. He was in that tree,” Thor says, pointing towards a wizened maple tree.

The ladder is still in place. “Thank you so much from getting him down.”

“Oh no, sir. I must give all the credit to your sneaky friend here; he came down before we even arrived.”

“What?” So why are they still here? Don’t they have burning buildings to douse and people to save?

“No, Pepper! I refuse! My tree, my house, _my_ rules!” A voice shouts from up above, and that’s when Steve catches a glimpse of bluish white light and a body attached to it — Tony Stark. Child genius and billionaire Tony Stark.

Twenty-four years old, in-and-out-of rehab, orphaned-at-seventeen Tony Stark who has recently come home from a not-quite-voluntary stint in Afghanistan. Never out of the paper — not since he was born — Tony Stark. Who’s sitting in a tree in his garden and yelling at his CEO, Pepper Potts. If this doesn’t make the papers by tomorrow, Steve is going to be very disappointed in _The Daily Bugle_.

Okay, so Steve may be reading _The Bugle_ a bit too often, especially since he doesn’t believe the lies that have miraculously earned the right to be on print paper.

“Tony, this is a Board of Directors meeting! You have to go.” Ms. Potts looks like she could use a drink. Or multiple drinks.

“Considering that SI is _my_ company, I thought I could decide which meetings I need to go to!” Stark shouts back, showing no fear for the formidable woman in the grey skirt-suit. Steve can’t say the same for himself. It’s hard not to be intimidated by a woman who seems to have no problem with treading on the uneven grass lawn in her high heels.

“It won’t _be_ your company for much longer if you don’t make it to any of the board meetings!”

“Mr. Stark,” a quiet, but stern voice interrupts the argument. Steve finally catches sight of a dark-haired woman at the top of the ladder, an arm’s length away from Stark. “There are actual fires in this city that need to be put out so you are going to let me help you down _right now_ , or so help me God, I will take my fire truck, and I will leave you sitting in this tree until kingdom come.”

“You might consider listening, kid,” Loki calls out from behind Steve. “Sif doesn’t joke. She doesn’t know how.”

Tony Stark doesn’t seem to care; instead he begins to edge away from Sif. Steve can only watch in horror as Stark loses his balance and dangles precariously off of the branch he was formerly sitting on. Loki and Thor begin to run towards the tree, but their help is neither wanted nor needed. Sif — and oh boy, these fire-fighters might actually be Norse gods in disguise — reaches for the man in a feat of acrobatics even Leo couldn’t master, hoists him over her shoulder as if he were as light as a feather and climbs right back down the ladder.

Steve finally exhales in relief. He doesn’t know Stark, but he can’t help worry about him, anyway. Steve has seen the public photos of Stark returning from Afghanistan. The look on his face, that was like watching Bucky come home all over again. Stark may have come back with both his arms, but he’s definitely left something behind in Afghanistan. Steve’s mind refuses to let go until it knows what it is and can start thinking of ways to fix it, never mind the fact that they’re strangers to each other.

(So Bucky might have had a point when he told Steve he had a Messiah complex.)

Ms. Potts doesn’t wait for Sif to put Stark down before beginning to scold him. Relieved that no permanent damage has been done — neither to the cat nor the human — Steve makes his way out of the mansion. He’s intruded enough.

He’s nearly at the gates when Leo makes a desperate break for it, scrambling down Steve’s leg and running full-speed at Stark. Steve takes off as well — asthma be damned, he’s completely done with this bullshit. He’s supposed to be working on the final pieces for his very first solo gallery opening and instead _this_ is his life.

Steve abruptly comes to a stop in front of Stark, who now holds Leo at arm’s length like a baby he knows not what to do with.

“An hour in the tree and you didn’t even want to acknowledge my existence, but we’re back on the ground and now we’re besties? Oh, _hell,_ no. Find your own damn tree in your own damn house.”

Steve should probably take his cat back, but an actual real life miracle is happening. Leo practices open disdain for everyone but Steve and Bucky. Back when Steve had shared a small Brooklyn apartment with Bucky, he had found Leo in the gutter one rainy night and brought him home. Despite Steve’s allergies, he’d been dead set on saving the half-starved kitten. With Bucky’s reluctant help, Leo had survived. More importantly, he’d imprinted on them. The rest of the world, no matter how lovely like Sam, or terrifying like Natasha, came to mean nothing to Leo but a scratching post. Yet here he is, with an absolute stranger, gone limp like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“Well, unfortunately, he’ll have to do with a sixth floor walk-up instead,” Steve says, taking a step to retrieve Leo. He might be miraculously docile now, but one never knows what Leo will do next. Stark takes a step back from Steve, bringing Leo closer to his chest.

“Security breach, there’s been a security breach,” Stark says. “Who the hell are you?”

“Steve Rogers, I presume?” Potts holds out her hand. “Pepper Potts. Thor told me that was the name on the collar.”

Steve shakes her hand with a polite nod. “That would be me. Leo’s mine.”

“Leo? Who names a cat Leo? Oppenheimer, this guy’s crazy,” Stark tells Leo as Leo head butts the mysterious light in the centre of his chest.

Wait. _Oppenheimer?_

“Tony, is that safe?” Potts asks.

“Safe?” Stark, so personally affronted by the statement, squishes the cat closer to him with one hand and waves the other around in offence. Steve doesn’t know whether to laugh or grab his cat and walk away as fast as his feet and lungs will take him _._ “I made this thing; of course it’s not going to break. Do I _look_ like Justin Hammer to you?”

Potts rolls her eyes. “My sincerest apologies, Mr. Stark. Now please give the gentleman his cat back so he can be on his way, and more importantly, we can deal with our little Miami problem.”

Steve might be really busy with his art show, but he’s not living under a rock. He’d read about Miami — the failed attempt on Stark’s life, and Obadiah Stane’s impending trial. He was being charged with multiple counts of attempted murder and arms trafficking. There’s also the matter of Stark Industries shutting down their entire weapons program. Even if he were living under a rock, there was no way to miss that.

“Yeah, not gonna happen. I don’t know who you are. How do I know this is your cat? He ran straight into my arms, and he just spent half an hour scratching up hot Blondie.” Stark points out Thor. “I meant him, not you. I mean, you’re a hot blond too, but I was referring to Odinson over there.”

 _How can one person be this exasperating and charming at the same time?_ “Leo’s pretty bad with people. He didn’t scratch me, and well, my contact information _is_ on his collar, you know.”

“A likely story,” Stark says, looking at Steve with one raised eyebrow.

“Alright Tony, this is becoming ridiculous, even for you. This is Steve Rogers,” Potts says, looking down at her phone. “He lives at 17th West 70th, he has a gallery opening in three months that you’ve already RSVP’d to. This is most definitely his cat.” Steve decides he’s not going to ask how she came to know all of that.

“Fine. Good bye, Oppenheimer. It was fun while it lasted.” He holds out Leo, and Steve sneezes. Damn, he should have taken his allergy medication. Stark jerks back, holding Leo up against his chest. 

“Are you sick? Can you make him sick? Get a mask. Pepper get him a mask,” Stark orders over Pott’s “Tony, how rude”.

“No,” Steve does roll his eyes then. “I’m allergic.”

Stark is still looking at Potts. “He’s allergic! Are you sure this is the right Steve Rogers? He’s a spy, Potts, a corporate spy. Look at his face; it’s all red and blotchy! I’m keeping Oppenheimer.”

“His name,” Steve says, scrunching his nose up, and ultimately failing at suppressing the next sneeze, “excuse me, is Leonardo da Sneezi. Because I’m allergic to cats. But yes, he’s mine, and I can get his ID card if you’d like. Plus I promise you I wouldn’t try to kidnap him, he’s a pain in my ass.”

There’s a pause.

“You’re a strange, strange person, Steve Rogers,” Stark finally says.

“Yes,” Steve replies dryly, looking pointedly at the tree before facing Stark. “ _I’m_ the strange one.”

Potts fails at hiding her smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rogers; I love your work and look forward to your opening at The Shield.

“Thank you, Ms. Potts. Steve is fine,” Steve says. “I look forward to seeing you there.”

“Pepper will do then,” Pepper’s smile is full and genuine.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you not to flirt in front of your boss unless you’re flirting with him, Ms. Potts?” Stark admonishes her. “Catch ya later, strange person,” Stark waves his hand at him, and Steve nods before making his way back. He holds Leo particularly tightly as they pass Loki, ignoring the snarl. He’s not actually sure who that was from.

-

The next day, FedEx brings up a large package and asks him to sign for it. Steve signs, wondering if he’s drunk ordered art supplies again. The FedEx lady is kind enough to help Steve bring the package into the living room. When he tears through the cardboard, Steve finds a cat tower and enough cat treats to last Leo for all nine lifetimes.

He considers returning it, but finds a note from Pepper.

 _Please consider this a gift from Mr Stark to Mr_ _da_ _Sneezi. And please don’t return it, he has no use for it, and he will throw it away. Mr_ _da_ _Sneezi could make better use of it._

Steve swallows his pride, and puts writing a thank you card on his to-do list. 

And that’s the end of that.

-

Or so Steve thinks.

-

A few weeks later, Steve’s considering throwing the canvas out of the window and returning to working exclusively with charcoal, when he gets a call from a private number. “Rogers,” he answers, putting his phone on speaker and dumping it on the couch in his studio so he can pick up his palette again. Cerulean or azure, _that’s_ the real question. 

“Do you hate your cat or something?” Tony Stark’s voice comes clearly through the phone.

“Mr. Stark. How did you get this number?”

“I’m a tech genius; I am capable of doing things with a computer that you couldn’t imagine in your wildest dreams.”

“You Googled me, didn’t you?”

Stark sighs. “I Googled you. Also your internet security is shit. So’s your home security.”

“ _What?”_

 _“_ Your cat has escaped again, and he might be courting my tree. Consider keeping Oppenheimer in line.”

“ _Leo_ is asleep on my bed right now. Maybe your tree attracts cats. Call the fire department,” Steve says, putting down the palette and picking up the phone. He walks into the bedroom; it can’t hurt to check after all. But the lump under his blankets is gone. “What the… he was here. Five minutes ago. I just saw him!”

“Well that’s impossible; my security feeds caught him entering around eleven.”

“Eleven? It’s only nine…” Steve checks his phone screen. It blinks back 11:27 am at him.

“Oh _please_ don’t be a dumb blond, I saw your Columbia transcripts, you’re not supposed to be an idiot—”

“I’m a horrible parent. I was painting. I opened the window and lost track of time.” Steve drops the phone on the bed to change out of his paint-covered clothes.

“Clearly, he likes my place better. I’ll be keeping him,” Tony decides. “If he marries the tree, it’s more convenient for him.”

“I’m coming,” Steve replies, tugging on his boots.

“Drop by Hawkeye’s on the way. Bring me a lactose-free cafe mocha, no whipped cream. Get yourself something too.” And before Steve can get another word in, he hears the dial tone.

Well, coffee can’t hurt.

Steve scrambles for a scarf and gloves.  If he gets sick before the pieces for the gallery are done, Phil might actually murder him. Art curator or not, Phil Coulson looks like he knows how to kill a man without too much trouble. And if he can’t do it, his ex-army husband Clint definitely could. Steve double-checks his pockets for his wallet and keys, and makes his way down to the nearby café.

Clint Barton, the owner of the purple-themed café, is sitting in one corner, stacks of paper and a Stark laptop spread out on the table in front of him. Steve orders his drinks with Darcy, the ever-broke, ever-sarcastic grad student, tips generously, and heads over to Clint. “Hey you.”

Steve met Clint through Bucky and Sam, the three of them having been part of the 107th Division. After a sonic boom had taken out Clint’s hearing, he’d moved back to New York, gotten married and started a café, now famous in the area for its spectacular coffees and even better pies.

Clint doesn’t look up, and when Steve sees the hearing aids laid out on the table, he gently raps his knuckles on the table. At the vibrations, Clint looks up and smiles, then puts his aids back in. “Hey! I thought you weren’t leaving the house until you finished ‘Kenya’ today.”

“That _was_ the plan until Leo ran away to the Stark Mansion again. If I don’t pick him up soon I’m pretty sure Stark will be halfway to Miami with him.”

“Good riddance,” Clint mutters. “That thing’s a demon, Steve, a demon cat.”

“You know the only reason he doesn’t like you is because you smell like Lucky right?” Steve asks.

“What’s your dumb cat got against dogs?” Clint frowns, and then rolls his eyes. “Anyways. Stark Mansion, huh? You know his CEO and Phil are pretty good friends, right?”

“Pepper? I met her.”

“Yeah, she’s great. Wants me to open a second branch inside that new tower of theirs. Like I got time for that shit. He comes here some times, always leaves a huge tip. I think he’s singlehandedly paying for Darcy’s tuition at this point.”

“And my textbooks,” Darcy chips in as she brings the two paper cups to Steve. He takes them with thanks. “Don’t worry, Steve, you pay for my Netflix.”

“Enjoy the new season of _Orphan Black_ on me then,” Steve tells her. He bids them goodbye and heads out. 

-

An elderly gentleman buzzes him in through the gates, and welcomes him at the front door. He leads him through the Jacobean-styled home into the living room, where Stark is lounging, Leo napping on his chest.

The coffee is cold by the time Steve gives it over to Stark’s grabby hands, but he doesn’t notice it. In fact he just downs the whole thing in one big go while keeping Leo on his chest like a newborn. Every pose that Stark hits is wholly unique. Steve’s hand itches for charcoal.

“Right, this should cover it, right?” Stark asks, dropping the empty cup onto the coffee table and holding up a hundred dollar bill.

Steve doesn’t take it. “You could buy fifty cups of coffee with that, Mr. Stark. And it’s on me.”

“Eww. I’m Tony. Only my lawyers call me Mr. Stark. And Pepper, when she’s mad. And technically, it’s Dr Stark, but you never hear her calling me that. Are you sure you know how to take care of Oppenheimer?”

“Well I only rescued him as a kitten and raised him, but hey, you’re the genius,” Steve replies dryly, eying Tony. His feet (and dirty shoes) are thrown up on an expensive looking couch. Unlike the rest of the ancient house, Tony oozes casual appeal in torn jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. The strange but beautiful light continues to shine in a circle through his shirt. There’s grease in his hair and on his face. His stomach grumbles and Steve’s echoes the sentiment loudly.

“That I am,” Tony says. “And I had Jarvis feed him. That’s my butler, you met him. Now get him out of my hair. I’m off to science.”

“You mean, after lunch.”

“Nah, I had an idea. I’ll do that first, now please get Oppenheimer out of here. No fur balls are allowed in the lab.” Tony scratches Leo’s forehead fondly and then gets up to pass him over. Steve tries to take him and gets scratched in the process, but ultimately Leo settles against him, butting his head against Steve’s chest. 

“How about lunch first? On me. I owe you anyway for that cat tower thing.”

“Nope. Go away now, the grown-ups need to work.”

“I’m older than you.”

Tony frowns. “No way. What are you, twenty?”

“I’m thirty-one,” Steve says bristly.  He’s tall and skinny and still gets carded buying beer; it’s hard not to take offense after a while.

Tony has a double-take at that, his lips slowly forming a pleased smile. “Dermatologists everywhere must hate you.”

Steve snorts. “Grab your coat please.”

“How desperate are you to have our faces splattered in _US Weekly_ tomorrow?” Tony asks, not moving an inch. “I mean, if that’s your goal, it’s okay. You wouldn’t be the first.”

Steve frowns at the casual way Tony says it. As if being used for his celebrity is perfectly normal. Steve dumps Leo back onto Tony’s kidneys and pulls out his phone. “Let’s do take out.”

“Rollo’s Pizza. Extra cheese, extra olives.”

-

After Leo’s second jail break, Steve becomes more careful with his windows when it concerns his dumb cat. He’s breathing in too many paint fumes while putting the finishing touches to ‘Kenya’, but the windows stay closed no matter how often Leo claws at them. The one time Steve had forgotten and opened the window after cooking, Leo had run like Lucky had been chasing him. The curtains were ripped into ribbons during Leo’s terrible twos anyway, so Steve’s not worried about the damage to the glass or window dressings. He just wants his damn cat to stop running away every chance he gets.

So this time, it’s Bucky’s fault.

When Bucky Barnes isn’t working on rehab for his shoulder or helping out at the VA, he spends his time making out with Sam or bothering Steve. The bothering part comes with the territory; they’re blood brothers. (Literally, Steve remembers getting tetanus from the rusty nail they’d used for the ceremony when they were twelve).

In Bucky’s own words, he’s visiting to make sure Steve hasn’t died of hunger in between work and living with a cat he’s allergic to. Any hope of convincing Bucky that no, really, Steve is perfectly capable of living on his own , is squashed the moment he walks into Steve’s studio just as Steve spits out a mouthful of paint water.

“The whole point of me buying you the two mugs was so you could tell the difference between what’s paint water and what ain’t, Stevie.”

“Well, it doesn’t help if I stick my paint brush in the ‘NOT Paint Water’ mug,” Steve returns, forcing another gag back down.

“Jesus, this place smells like paint and death,” Bucky says as Leo claws his way up Bucky’s pant leg. Bucky lifts him and places him on his metal shoulder, Leo’s usual spot. “And you look like a hobo. Or a hipster, I don’t know the difference these days. Go take a shower while I make lunch. Thank God for automatic food dispensers because otherwise Leo would starve. And when exactly was the last time _you_ ate anything?”

Steve would argue, but Bucky’s right, he can’t actually remember what his last meal was, so he decides to obey and take a shower. He scrubs the paint off and changes into his last pair of clean jeans and a Columbia University hoodie. He’s not messy by nature, but the exhibition has been taking a toll on him and his housekeeping capabilities. When Steve walks into the kitchen, still towelling his hair, he sees the note Bucky’s left him a note on the kitchen counter — he’s off to get groceries. The pizza boxes have been rounded up and the apartment doesn’t smell like a thrift shop anymore. Steve adds ‘treat Bucky to a baseball game’ after the gallery opening to his to-do list. Then Steve decides to attack the dirty dishes so they’ll have something to eat on when Bucky gets back.  

“You fail miserably at living alone,” Bucky tells him the moment he walks in with groceries.

“Well, not everyone can go join the army and find a soldier fiancé,” Steve retorts.

“Lose an arm, gain the love of your life, I don’t know why they don’t advertise it like that.”

Steve grins. It’s good to see how far Bucky’s come since those early days when they’d been living together. When Steve hadn’t known how to be of help without suffocating Bucky. “You could always give Sam the ring back and move back in here.”

“And deal with Leo all day long? No thanks? Where is that terror of yours?” Bucky asks, unloading the groceries.

“Oh _no_.” Steve turns around to look at the windows. And the fire escape. “The windows.”

“Yeah, I opened them. Do you know how dry and dusty it is in here? You’re going to have an attack,” Bucky says.

“Leo’s gone down the fire escape again.” Steve groans, exasperated. He’s no longer scared he’ll run onto the street and get himself killed. Leo will just pass through the park to the Stark Mansion.

“Oh fuck. That dumb cat’s going to get himself killed,” Bucky dumps the broccoli and wipes his hands on his shirt. “Are you sure?”

“Bucky when have you ever entered this apartment and not had him climbing up to your prosthetic arm and refusing to let go?”

“Fuck. Where do we — he’s going to get hurt. What if he gets hit by something — oh fuck. Stevie…” Bucky runs both hands through his hair, tugging at the ends in frustration. For all that Bucky calls Leo a menace and a devil, he loves him at least as much as Steve does.

Steve leans in to put an arm on Bucky’s shoulder. “No, that’s not the problem, Buck. Leo’s fine. He’ll just walk through the park and head to the Stark Mansion. And I’m going to have to deal with Tony telling me my cat hates me. And let’s face it, he’s probably right because Leo flies the coop every damn chance he gets.”

“Really? How many times has this happened so far?”

“Well three or four times now. Leo likes this tree at the Stark Mansion. There was a documentary on Tony on CNN the other day and Leo went clawing at the TV when they show the mansion,” Steve tells him, pulling out his phone to text Tony: _Leo’s_ _flirting with your tree again, I think. Are you home?”_

He gets a text back a minute later that says: _about to leave any chance u’ll let me hide out at ur place until pep flies bck to miami ill bring oppenheimer._

 _“_ Who’s Oppenheimer?” Bucky asks, reading over his shoulder.

“A scientist from the Manhattan Project,” Steve replies while texting Tony a _yes_.

“Don’t be a smartass, punk, not to the man keeping you from starvation.”

“Make enough for three,” Steve orders, and begins closing the windows. “He’s bringing the cat over.”

-

Steve doesn’t realise he cares about Tony’s opinion of his apartment until the man in question lets out a pleased-sounding sigh, pushes past Steve and curls up on the couch, Leo in his arms. Steve and Bucky look at each other, and share shrugs.

“Pizza again?” Tony asks. “Because I’m chill with that. Lactose-intolerance can suck it. And who are you?” That last question is directed at Bucky. “Steve, is he your boyfriend? Because high five.” Tony holds up his hand in Steve’s general direction.

“I think I just threw up in my mouth a little,” Bucky says as Steve wrinkles his nose at the idea. “Steve and I’ve known each other for too long for us to ever think about dating. We’re best friends.”

Tony sits up, looking suddenly interested. “Does that mean you’re single?”

 “Engaged, sorry. Steve’s single though.” It’s as second nature for Bucky to try and set him up as it is for Steve to trip Bucky up as payback. Bucky evades expertly — stupid ass military training.

“Steve’s a crazy cat person,” Tony replies. Steve tries not to take offense to that, because Tony’s not exactly wrong.

“Can’t argue with that, kid,” Bucky says. “Broccoli or cauliflower?”

“On pizza? That’s just wrong.” Tony’s expression is so genuinely affronted that the laugh just sneaks out of Steve.

“There are other food groups beyond pizza, Tony,” Steve teases.

“Obviously. There are also chilli dogs and waffles. Mmm… morning-after waffles.” Tony flops back on the couch. “Let’s have waffles.”

“It’s neither morning, nor the morning after,” Steve answers, though to be honest, waffles sound amazing right about now.

Over Tony’s leering “well, that could change”, Bucky says, “Seeing as I’m doing all the work here, I choose what’s ending up in your stomachs. Anyone who helps can have a _small_ say in what lunch is going to be.”

Tony stays exactly where he is.

Steve and Bucky fall into their natural rhythm; they both know their way around the kitchen. Steve rinses the rice while Bucky preps broccoli for the steamer, moving in and out of each other’s paths in a practised dance. Knowing what they’re doing by heart makes it easier for them to focus on Tony, who runs his mouth a mile a minute. And focus is highly necessary to keep up with a genius who enjoys flirting with tangents as much as with people.

Tony’s phone vibrates for nearly the entire half-hour that it takes them to prepare lunch. But he’s more interested in Steve and Bucky, asking random questions in-between his own thoughts. Steve doesn’t mind. He’s got no sordid secrets, and if Tony wants a look into the boring lives of normal people, he’s welcome to. Tony walks and talks, and walks some more, and then he doesn’t. When Steve looks up, he’s nowhere to be seen. Steve and Bucky share a curious look, then they scramble to tap their right pointer fingers to the tip of their noses.

Bucky wins with a big ugly smile on his face. “Not it!”

Not unkindly, Steve elbows Bucky and then makes his way to search the apartment. He finds Tony in the studio, sitting at the drawing table and flipping through Steve’s latest sketchbook.

 “What is this?”

“A mess. I know.” Steve’s hand itches to snatch the sketchbook away; there are better examples of Steve’s work that Tony could be looking at. “I’m doing a series on people and where they come from.

“And what’s this supposed to be?” Tony asks as Steve comes to stand behind him.

“Manhattan. I just don’t know anyone who grew up in Manhattan.” Steve traces the pencil sketch of the skyline. The image is accurate, but it feels hollow, leaving Steve unsatisfied. 

Some of them had been easy. ‘Russia’ in particular had taken him just over a month to complete. He’d photographed Natasha in motion — pirouettes and high leaps. In the end, he’d chosen an image of a perfect arabesque, one leg high and straight behind her, and the other _en Pointe_. From that, Steve had transformed the training room of the nearby fitness centre into a winter wonderland — the bright scarlet of Natasha’s hair striking against a background of soft greys and icy blues. ‘Brooklyn’ had been the first one. He’d found an old picture of Bucky and Steve on a rooftop playground and finished the painting over three weeks, changing nothing of the original.

Steve’s wanted to paint Manhattan since he moved into this apartment. A part of him had considered self-portraiture, but it hadn’t worked. Despite the years he’s lived in Manhattan, he’s a Brooklynite through and through. 

“Sure you do,” Tony says, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “So I may have been born on Long Island, but I grew up in the mansion. I mean, when I wasn’t in boarding school in Switzerland. I’m from Manhattan.”

 “Are you offering to sit for me?”

“I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, Steve,” Tony says, completely seriously. 

A pause. Then Tony bursts into laughter, and Steve follows. When they finally catch their breaths, Steve’s bent over double, forehead resting on Tony’s shoulder. He so close he can smell the motor oil from the t-shirt. Steve pulls quickly out of Tony’s personal space.

“Come on,” Steve says, making his way to the door. “Lunch is ready, and if we wait for Bucky to carry everything over to the couch, he’ll drop everything on the floor on purpose and blame his prosthetic arm.”

“Prosthetic arm?” As expected, Tony scrambles out of the room. Steve follows him into the kitchen, where Tony’s poking at Bucky’s metal arm with a screwdriver that Steve knows isn’t his own. 

At Steve’s questioning glance, Bucky says with a lopsided smile, “I said it was bothering me a bit.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Tony mumbles over the second, smaller screwdriver in his mouth. “Did you not see my last name on your fucking arm?”

“What, am I supposed to assume everything with your name on it was personally made by you?” Bucky shoots back.

“No, but I _did_ design this,” Tony replies. “Chief Engineer here. Don’t you have check-ins with the engineers at SI? This is too heavy, no wonder your shoulder’s hurting. You’re getting a new one. You’ll get one on Monday. You got plans on Monday?”

“Yeah?”

“So do I. We’ll cancel them. This needs to be fixed.”

-

Three hours later, Pepper finally tracks Tony down and drags him out of the apartment while unnecessarily apologising to Steve. Bucky drops down into Steve’s lap on the couch after they leave, and in complete and utter seriousness says, “Marry him.”

-

It’s not that Steve hasn’t thought about it. Not the marriage part, he’s a crazy cat person, not a crazy person. But… Tony.

Steve’s not picky about gender but he has a type and it’s dark-haired and clever, rough outer edges hiding tenderness. But, Tony said it himself, he’s not interested in Steve. Bucky doesn’t know what he’s talking about; they’re better off as friends.

-

A month before his opening, Steve drinks an entire mug of paint water without realising it, and then throws his filbert brush down in momentary defeat. Painting is a war. Sometimes battles are won. Other times, Steve has learned that it is better to accept defeat and live to fight another day.

So instead he decides to let the whiteness of the canvas win the battle of the day, heading out for a brisk walk in the park. He forgets his scarf and beanie, but it’s fine. It’s a bitter cold day in November; the wind bites his cheeks roughly before passing him by. The fall leaves follow, not much gentler. He might miss Brooklyn and seeing his Ma more often, but what he loves about living in the Upper West Side is that he’s a short walk away from Central Park — and a half-hour walk from there to MoMA.

Phil Coulson finds him admiring a Cezanne within ten minutes of him entering the gallery. “Looking for inspiration?”

“How much more Manhattan can you get than with fruit on a table, am I right?” Steve met Phil at an art show nearly a decade ago. They’d talked, and then lost contact. Six years and a few hundred art shows later, Bucky had asked him to do a few pieces for his friend Clint’s new café, and he’d bumped into Phil in front of an under construction Hawkeye’s. The pieces he’d done for Hawkeye’s were some of his first paid paintings and since then, they’d become not only good friends, but business associates as well. Phil is the chief curator for The Shield, the gallery that represents Steve. “We’re screwed, Phil. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I’ve got brochures and posters out on buses that speak of a journey from Brooklyn to Manhattan, so I really need that piece. Steve, I’m not saying this just because you’re my friend. You are one of the most promising up-and-coming artists of your generation. And you’ve done paintings within weeks, think about ‘Brooklyn’.”

“I’m working on it.” Lose a battle, win the war.

“Steve? Coulson!” They both turn towards the voice and find Tony walking towards them in a sharp, navy suit, hair slicked back. Tony looks too neat. Steve decides he’s not a fan of the look. 

“Mr. Stark, always a pleasure,” Phil tells Tony in a voice that is anything but pleased.

“Shouldn’t you be working? Go dust a painting or something.” If Steve’s eyebrows weren’t so invisibly blonde, he’s sure their current longitude would warrant some worried looks.

“Shouldn’t you be working your investor?” Phil shoots back.

“Is Pepper making you keep tags on me? Ross left ages ago, something about something classified. Or not. I wasn’t listening. I’m not supposed to be at the Tower until two so are you gonna snitch on me to mom or what, Coulson?”

Phil rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t even here. Good bye, Steve. Good luck.”

Steve nods, and waves him goodbye. He turns to Tony. “What did you do to him? I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel or something.”

“Rhodey and I bet I could make him pop one by the end of 2020.”

“ _Why?”_

“A good… twelve percent of the works he presents are bought by Pepper for the Stark Collection. So he has to put up with me. I’m just wondering how long it’ll take for him to blow up at me and then just treat me like a normal human being.”

It would seem that Tony is a lot more calculated than one would imagine at first glance. This is the Tony Stark that the rest of the world passes right on by, more interested in whatever shtick of the day he’s performing. When Steve catches Tony’s eyes, Tony smiles at him knowingly, and then walks towards the contemporaries. He stops at the exit and turns back, his body twisting at the hip in an easy motion.

“Are you coming or what?” Tony asks.

Steve swallows the lump in his throat and nods.

-

Following Tony around the museum is a work of increasing patience and deep joy. Tony doesn’t understand the concept of slowing down and enjoying art. One minute he’s slithering past tourists in the van Gogh gallery, and the next he’s cursing Diego Riviera at Frida Kahlo’s self-portrait. Far too soon, Steve’s watch points at half past one. “You should get going.”

“What?” Tony asks.

“Your two pm at Stark Tower? Let’s go, I’ll walk you.”

“Buy me a hot dog? I don’t have any cash.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve fake grumbles, and then interlocks his right arm with Tony’s left. “Let’s get a move on.”

He buys Tony two chilli dogs and a coke, buys a corn dog for himself, and they begin their walk towards 200 Park Avenue. Tony’s arm tenses next to Steve as they turn a corner. “I’m sorry about this,” he says.

Steve doesn’t even have the time to think before the camera flashes go off around them. Suddenly their path is blocked by a multitude — paparazzi with their obnoxious cameras and tourists with phones. Tony stops to take a few selfies with the tourists, then grabs Steve’s wrist and picks up his pace, dragging Steve and his protesting lungs away. They’re followed into the Tower, until security comes to drag the paparazzi out and the elevator doors close shut on them.

-

Steve wakes up the next morning with a cough. He makes his way to the kitchen in his robe, hauling a roll of toilet paper along for his runny nose. He’s dipping his toast into his egg — sunny side up — when Bucky walks into the apartment and smacks the newspaper down on the table. _The Daily Bugle_ features a picture of him. Steve’s arm is locked with Tony’s, his head is thrown back in a laugh on their way to Stark Tower. Someone had caught a photo of them before they’d noticed the crowd. The title screams: **_TONY STARK IN LOVE?_**

Steve groans. He pushes his plate — and the newspaper — towards Bucky, and heads off into the bedroom planning to cuddle his cat and pretend the day hasn’t begun. Of course that’s when he catches sight of rain pouring in through the open window, and no sign of Leo.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Steve moans, pulling out his phone. This is at least the tenth time in the last month. Leo’s turning this into a terrible habit.

Tony answers on the first ring. “Yes, your cat is here. Yes, you can come over—"

“Steve,” Pepper’s voice cuts through the connection. “I don’t know how much you want your face plastered over the _Daily News_ bulletin _again_ , but if that isn’t your goal in life, I would considering laying low. I’ll see what I can do to bring Leo over,”

“His name is Oppenheimer!” Tony corrects defiantly from somewhere in the background. Pepper sighs into the phone.

“In the meantime, is your publicist releasing a statement? I need their number to make sure their statements are in sync with our own.”

“Umm,” Steve looks at Bucky, who’s wolfing down Steve’s toast. “I don’t have a publicist.”

“A MacArthur Fellowship winner with an upcoming exhibition with The Shield, and you don’t have a publicist?” Pepper actually sounds confused. And Steve’s getting more than a little creeped out by the seemingly encyclopaedic knowledge that Pepper seems to have of his life.

“Well, the paparazzi don’t really care about modern artists, you know,” Steve replies.

“They will now. I’m sending your contact information to SI’s publicity team; they’ll give you some pointers and release a statement.”

“But—“

“Steve, I don’t know how you got away with it so far, but you’re not going to be able to hide anymore. You’re on the Stark radar. With the Stane court case coming up, your entire life is going to be in the spotlight. I’m sorry, but that’s just a part of being friends with Tony. Let me help.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Thank you.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

A moment later, Tony’s voice is back on the line. “Oppenheimer has officially taken my tree’s innocence. They have to get married now.”

“That’s quite a conservative mind-set, but I _do_ love weddings,” Steve replies, sitting down and taking his coffee mug back from Bucky, who forgoes trying to steal the mug to instead grab an orange from the fruit bowl.

“Something small, we’ll just hold it under the tree of course. Invite close family and friends,” Tony says. Steve listens with a smile. He holds his hand out to Bucky, who passes him an orange slice.

“Band or orchestra?”

“I can play piano. I figure something classic, like the _Jurassic Park_ theme.”

“Or _The Fellowship_ theme,” Steve suggests. “It’s more romantic.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at that, as if the mention of the wedding hadn’t been surprising enough. “Leo’s marrying the tree,” Steve explains. “It’s going to be the event of the season.”

“Yes!” Tony exclaims. “I need to call my caterer. Jarvis, call my caterer! I’ll see you around, Steve. Don’t worry, Jarvis is feeding Oppenheimer fresh tuna, I’ll bring him over when he’s fat and round.” Tony stops his rambling to take a deep breath. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I got your face plastered in that rag and the idiots of New York think you’re dating a guy. Me. A guy-me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tony, I don’t care what the idiots of New York think,” Steve replies. He’s not sure he’s ever heard Tony get tongue-tied. It’s positively adorable. Steve being charmed by everything Tony does, however, isn’t. He needs to do something about that urgently.

“Okay, I’ll see to the catering then.” And before Steve can reply to that, he hears the dial tone.

“What just happened?” Bucky asks, handing over another orange slice.

“Oh we were just joking around,” Steve says, then pauses to think. “Probably. God I hope Tony isn’t actually planning a wedding for my cat.” It seems like the sort of thing Tony would do, just like riling up Coulson and adding a vibrate function to Bucky’s arm. If Sam weren’t so embarrassed, he’d likely be thanking Tony. And oh what Steve would do to wipe the memory of that particular conversation out of his mind. Tony Stark is thoughtful in the worst ways possible. But he’s also thoughtful in the best ways possible. Bucky’s arm hasn’t been swollen in weeks.

“Earth to Rogers, you in there?”

Steve looks at the orange pip lying on the table, lying there innocently as if it hadn’t flicked his forehead just a moment ago. “What?”

“You like him.” Bucky smirks, arms crossed at the table.

“Sure, he’s sweet,” Steve replies, because sometimes he’s slow and Bucky’s great at taking advantage of moments like this.

“No, you’re sweet. On him.”

“What? No!” The first step in getting over a crush is obviously denial, and buckets of it. “We’re just friends. We literally only met because Leo’s a runner!”

“Imagine telling that story at the wedding,” Bucky trails off. “We met because Leo fell in love with that tree…”

“I can have Ma organize a brain CT if you want,” Steve tells him, “I know they can get expensive, but for you, Ma would be happy to manage it for free. Hallucinations are a serious symptom of multiple neurological illnesses, you know.”

“I didn’t imagine this, punk,” Bucky says, pointing to the newspaper. Steve’s thrown his head back in laughter, and Tony’s looking at him, a soft expression gracing the elegant contours of his face. Their arms are locked together and their shoulders are bumping. Around them is the greenery of the park, but Tony stands in the centre, the main piece as always. He doesn’t even have to be trying, he just is.

“You never did listen to Mrs. Saliani in English. Don’t trust the media, jerk,” Steve replies automatically while pulling the photograph closer to him. The writer’s a douche canoe but the photographer knows what he’s doing. Not that it would be that difficult considering how photogenic Tony is. Among the tourists — who always look out of place — there’s Steve and Tony, looking more at home that Steve feels in his own skin.

“Stevie?”

“Manhattan,” Steve finally says, holding up the newspaper so Bucky can see.

“Yes…”

“No, this is Manhattan. Look at him.”

Bucky finally gets it and fixes Steve with a look. “You can’t do that photograph. It’s plagiarism.”

“Not the photograph, knucklehead! _Him_!”

“Didn’t he already offer to sit for you?”

“Oh. Right.” Steve pushes himself up. “Okay then, back to work.”

“For the record, I think he’s crushing on you too,” Bucky says, pointing to the paper in his hand. “And it wouldn’t hurt you to date.”

“I’m not interesting in dating right now. And even if I were, Tony’s not interested in me,” Steve replies. “You were here when he said I wasn’t.”

“No, he called you a crazy cat person. Which, let’s be honest: you are. Who adopts a cat they’re allergic to?”

“Leo imprinted on me! He was tiny and picky! He would never have gotten adopted! What was I supposed to do?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “He’s not picky, he’s a spoiled brat. I am not having this argument with you again. And you need to learn to act on feelings. If you’d done something about Peggy—“

“Bucky that was years ago. Come on. My career is my focus right now, and I need to work, so.” Steve looks away. He knows he’s not good with women — or men — but he’s tired of Bucky dangling him around like he’s a worm on a line and they’re the fish. That has never been known to end well for either party.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going. And you’re sick, so take your meds and go to bed, Stevie,” Bucky leans over to ruffle his hair. Steve jerks at the cold touch against his scalp. “Great, you’ve got a fever. Go to bed!”

Steve nods and heads over to the bathroom as Bucky leaves. He has four weeks to go and no painting. His body is just going to have to toughen up. So he pops an aspirin, sticks an inhaler in his pocket and heads into his studio.

-

In hindsight, Steve’s an idiot and should listen to Bucky more often. It would save him at least some money on prescriptions.

But first, there’s an increasingly uncomfortable conversation with his mother that has him explaining to her that no, he is not dating Tony Stark. Yes, that _was_ a picture of them together, but they’re just friends. Less uncomfortable, but just as annoying are the ridiculous text messages that Steve needs to reply to, repeatedly telling everyone that ‘no, really, guys, not dating him, stop sending me digital high fives for ‘hitting that’.

Finally, Steve gets fed up and turns off his phone. If there’s an emergency, that’s why he has the land line. He sits down at his drawing table to sketch out some basic shapes from memory.

The doorbell wakes him two hours later.

Steve forces himself off of the stool and off to open the door. Tony stands soaking wet, Leo tucked into his hoodie in tow. Tony has a hood over his head and sunglasses.  The idiot population of New York must be on the rise if the paparazzi didn’t recognise him through that.

“Stay here, I’ll get you towels,” Steve says, letting him in and closing the door behind them. He coughs on his way to the linen closet, hitting his chest a little in annoyance. “I thought you were supposed to be lying low?”

“Pepper told me to stay home. She didn’t specify which home. Can I borrow some clothes?”

“You have a death wish, but yeah sure. Here, pass me Leo. Why don’t you jump in the shower?” Steve points it out to him. “Bedroom’s that a way, so help yourself to clothes after.”

Steve takes Leo out of Tony’s arms, wrapping him in the towel he used to sleep on as a kitten. Leo curls into it and purrs against Steve’s chest. Steve sneezes, and decides to rest on the couch while Tony takes a shower. He doesn’t mean to doze, but his body has different ideas. 

-

“Steve?”

At the sound of his name, Steve opens his eyes and finds Tony looking down at him, hair damp and water trailing down his collar bone, wetting the white t-shirt he’s taken from Steve’s closet. The light of the thing in his chest is particularly bright.  “That was quick,” Steve comments drowsily.

“I was gone for twenty minutes, Steve. Are you okay?” Tony asks.

“I’m fine. Must have dozed off,” Steve tries to stand up, but wobbles, and nearly drops Leo, who yowls and jumps out of his arms, running up his cat tower and into a cubby. Tony’s instantly there, holding Steve up, and then sitting him back down on the couch. As soon as he sits back down, he erupts into a coughing fit. A warm hand rubs circles over his back. 

When his lungs finally calm down a little, he begins to apologise to Tony, who waves him away. “Okay. You’re sick. Bed?”

“I have a painting due in four weeks, Tony,” Steve wheezes out. He doesn’t have time for his damn lungs to fail him, and yet that’s exactly what they do, because suddenly, breathing takes too much effort and he’s patting his chest with one hand and looking for the inhaler he knows he stuck in his bathrobe with the other.

Tony finds it in Steve’s pocket and tilts Steve’s chin up. He can hear the canister being shaken and then the inhaler is between his lips. He breathes in deeply.

Holds his breath.

Exhales.

By the third press of the canister, Steve can do it himself, and Tony sits beside him, once again pressing a warm hand to his upper back. Steve puts down the inhaler and breathes in and out slowly, his back arching into the warmth of Tony’s palm.

A pitiful meow alerts Steve to the fact that Leo’s at his feet, staring at him with what can only be a mix of grumpiness and worry. Oh damn it. “We are not telling Bucky this happened.”

“Come again?” Tony asks.

“He told me to take my meds in the morning and rest but I just popped pain meds for the headache.”

“So? I mean, I’m assuming that’s not what you’re supposed to do, but then I do that all the time so I’m not judging here.”

“Yeah, but he also meant my allergy meds.”

Tony fixes him with a put-upon stare. “Did you just have an asthma attack because of your dumb cat? You really are a crazy cat person.” Tony gets up, shoos Leo away and holds his arms out. “Don’t complain, just let me help please?”

Steve winces, but allows Tony to bring him to bed and sit him against the wooden headboard. Steve breathes in and out as Tony fetches his medication and even orders Vietnamese delivery. “I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but rest. If you rest now, you’ll feel better tomorrow, and you’ll hopefully get away without having another flare-up.”

Now that Steve’s settled and feeling much better, he realises that Tony didn’t panic one bit during the flare-up, something only his Ma and Bucky can do. And that’s because they’re used to it. Even Sam tends to freak out a little when it happens. Clint’s useless, too worried about Steve to actually be of help to anyone. (Natasha’s alright, but she gets this worried look on her face and then avoids Steve for a week after, which is a whole different story). But Tony, who Steve would have expected to freak out, is calm and intuitive when it comes to Steve’s needs. “You seem to know a lot about asthma.”

Tony shrugs and pulls out an inhaler out of his pocket. It’s a different brand than the ones Steve uses and the paper label is wrinkled from the rain, but an inhaler is an inhaler. “This thing,” Tony taps the light on his chest, “kind of gets in the way of breathing sometimes.”

Steve swallows. It’s hard to forget — especially when he’s watching Tony babble on about one thing or the other — that less than a year ago, he’d been a prisoner of war in Afghanistan. “If I may ask… what’s it do?”

Tony scrunches up his nose and sits down on the side of the bed. He looks at Steve for a long moment. Then he lifts up his shirt. A circle of light rests in the centre of a mess of scars that is Tony’s chest. Steve bites his lip to force the gasp in; he doesn’t want Tony to think Steve finds the arc reactor repulsive, because he doesn’t. But the mess of raised scars that surround it break Steve’s heart. If there were anything in his stomach, he’d have thrown it up by now.

“It’s a miniaturised arc reactor,” Tony explains.

Steve forces his mouth open. “Isn’t that what runs the Stark Tower? It was all over the newspapers.” Steve can’t look away from the thing that’s carved a space _inside_ of Tony’s chest.

“Yeah. Well, this is like a tiny version of what runs the Tower. It’s basically a high-tech electromagnet that keeps shrapnel from reaching my heart. Anyways, they had to take out a chunk of my lungs and ribs to make it fit. So asthma joined the party.”

“Does it hurt?”

Tony shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, and is saved by the buzzer. Tony gets up, pulling his shirt back down. Steve moves to grab his wallet from the bedside table.

“No, I got it,” Tony says, and Steve sighs.

“Tony, I know it’s not a big deal for you, but I’m perfectly capable of paying for dinner—”

“I _know_ that, but if you have to put up with me, you might as well get free food out of the deal,” Tony says, already out the room by the time Steve realises he needs to refute that statement. Tony comes back a few minutes later with food and chopsticks, and begins arranging it on the bed.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?” Tony looks up to meet his eyes and God, he looks young.

“I don’t put up with you. I’d like to believe we’re friends,” Steve rasps out. “I _like_ spending time with you.”

“Drink your soup,” Tony replies. “Stop talking, it’s only irritating your throat. You need your rest if you’re painting me tomorrow.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate your help, I do. But don’t you have a company to run?” Steve asks, wondering how Tony can afford to waste his time on Steve.

Tony whips out a tablet. “I can work from here.”

-

When Steve wakes up coughing in the middle of the night, it’s to find Leo warming Steve’s cold feet and Tony sitting on the floor. A holographic what’s-it is flaring out of his tablet and music blasts out of his ears. He doesn’t notice until Steve sits up, and then Tony shoots him a questioning thumbs-up that Steve returns.

“The bed might be more comfortable,” Steve suggests.

“I was comfortable, but I needed more space,” Tony explains, while moving what looks like floors of a building. It’s rather beautiful.

“What are you working on?” Steve asks, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting against the headboard. Leo meows at being disturbed and comes to crawl up beside Steve, his head bumping Steve’s hip. 

“I’m trying to convince Stark Tower Miami to run on arc reactor power, but she’s high maintenance and needs me to tweak every tiny little thing.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s possible that my baby in Miami hates renewable energy. Might have to do some plastic surgery. Bit of Botox. Not fun,” Tony mumbles. 

“Tony, it’s,” Steve swivels around to have a look at the clock, “four in the morning. Try to get some rest.”

“Can’t. I need this done before Monday. I need to send the plans to the engineers there before I get on the flight to Miami then.” _For the court case,_ he doesn’t need to say.

“And it’s Saturday morning. You can do it tomorrow. Besides, I thought I was meant to paint you tomorrow. Or do you not mind having rings around your eyes when you’re immortalised in an oil painting?” Steve asks, only half teasing.

Tony stops, waves the holographic images away and glares at Steve. “You _would_ not.”

“I would, too. Come to bed.”

“That’s a one person bed,” Tony says, eyeing the bed suspiciously.

“It’s _queen-sized_!”

“Yeah. It’s a one person bed.”

“What the hell kind of bed do you have, then?” Steve asks.

“A California King.”

“Well, normal people consider this to be a bed for two people,” Steve replies. “Now get in here. I for one want to get up early and work.”

“I feel bad for the women or men you bring to bed, who likely leave here with back problems,” Tony grumbles before turning off his tablet.

“And,” Steve blurts out.

“What?”

“Women and men, not or. I’m bi.”

Tony grins and holds out his fist. “Ditto.”

Steve shakes his head but fist bumps anyway before scooting to the other side of the bed. “Stop dawdling and move your ass.”

“Your flirting could use some improvement. There’s usually dinner or at least a drink involved, you know?” Tony shoots back before climbing into bed and pulling the covers over his legs.  They sit there together, close enough for Steve to feel the heat radiating from Tony’s body. “God, I could use a drink.”

Tony’s hands are in his lap, and something glints in the pale light. Tony passes something small to Steve. It’s a six month sobriety coin.

“Is there something triggering you right now?” Steve does a quick mental inventory. There’s champagne in a back cupboard somewhere, but that’s all the alcohol in the house at the moment.

“Nah. I always need a drink. Used to always be drunk. _Oh,_ the drunk engineering. Never ends well. Remind me to introduce you to Dummy. That’s dee yu em dash ee. DUM-E.”

“I look forward to meeting him.” Steve hands the coin back. “And you hold on to this. It’s quite the achievement, Tony.”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Tony replies. “I keep falling off the wagon.”

Steve bites his lip, then decides to tear down a wall. “My dad never managed a day without drinking, let alone six months.”

“Managed?”

“As far as I know. My Ma kicked him out when I was four. Last I heard he moved back to Ireland.” Steve wonders if that fact should hurt him more, but Steve barely remembers his Pa, the loss means next to nothing to him. As far as it counts, it’s always just been Steve and Ma.

“Wait, are you like, properly Irish?”

“Both my parents moved here from Dublin in the 70’s.”

Tony turns to him in excitement. “ _Labhair Gaelige liom_.”

“ _An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?_ ” Steve asks in surprise. French, maybe even Italian, he would have expected from Tony, not Irish Gaelic.

“ _Tá, cúpla focal_. My fourth nanny was Irish and used to speak to me in Irish a lot.” Tony switches back to English.

“Oh, my mother would love you,” Steve tells him. “She’s always complaining that I always reply to her in English when she speaks to me.”

“My mom would get so mad when she spoke to me in Italian and I’d answer in English,” Tony says, then goes completely still.

Steve had read about the car crash in the newspapers. He remembers the photograph from the funeral, a skinny seventeen-year-old Tony looking shell-shocked beside Obadiah Stane. And now, seven years later, that very man is being tried in Miami for multiples attempts on Tony’s life. Tony’s the richest man in the world, but what’s the point, Steve wonders, when you have no family to enjoy it all with?

That’s going to change, Steve decides. Between Steve and Bucky and the rest of their strange friend group, Tony’s going to have a family. If there’s anyone who needs it, it’s Tony. Steve reaches out in the dark and locks his arm with Tony’s.

-

Hours later, when they wake up with their backs aching and Tony complaining about his ‘tiny, pathetic bed’, Steve replies by shoving him off the bed and heading into the shower.

-

Steve and Tony are respectively on their second and fifth cups of coffee when Bucky storms into the apartment, Sam in tow and a look of fury on his face. He rummages through the tray of meds on the kitchen island and slaps a bunch of packets down in front of Steve. “Take your fucking meds, Stevie,” he says before walking right back out.

Sam hands over a paper bag to Steve. “We got you corn cookies from the Milk Bar.”

Steve takes it. “I would kiss you but Bucky’s already mad at me.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good choice,” Sam says. “Hi Tony.”

“Hi Sam.”

“Coffee?” Steve asks.

“That’s alright,” Sam says just as Bucky storms back in and takes Sam by the hand. “Bye guys.”

“Bye!” Steve and Tony say together.

When the door closes, Steve turns to Tony, exasperated. “I told you not to tell Bucky.”

“Yeah, but he’s your best friend and he worries, and also, I actually told Sam, and he got us cookies. Coffee?”      

“Yes, please.”                                                

-

“I thought you were a painter, not a photographer,” Tony says, sitting with his legs crossed on the couch in the studio. Steve’s taking photos for reference.

“I thought you said you owned one of my paintings.”

“Well, yes. Pepper said she bought one for the collection.”

“You’ve never seen it, have you?”

“I’m not an artsy-fartsy person, Steven. Pepper says you’re very talented. I trust her evaluation.”

What sort of a crazy world does Steve live in that Pepper Potts – someone who’s held van Gogh’s and Kandinsky’s in her hands — thinks his art is worth something?

Steve puts down the camera. “Okay, let me get you one of my sketchbooks.” The last time, Tony had only caught a look at landscape sketching, nothing truly Steve’s style.

Steve isn’t always keen on showing his sketches to people, but this one has his original sketches for the exhibition, so it’ll hopefully clarify Steve’s vision for the series. He comes to sit beside Tony on the couch, opening to the first page. It is a detailed sketch of the photograph of Bucky and Steve. Before Tony can have a look at it, Leo decides the sketchbook is the perfect place to sit, and then yowls when Steve shoves him away. Affronted, Leo disappears into the bedroom to hide under the bed sheets.

“Is this a printed collection?” Tony asks, tracing the curve of the car tire.

“Nope,” Steve says, holding his finger and turning it around so Tony can see the faint smudge of charcoal.

“Well, fuck me.”

And that’s when Steve’s cheeks start burning.

“Holy fuck, you _drew_ this? It might as well be a black and white photograph!” And the ears catch aflame alongside the cheeks.

“It’s called hyperrealism,” Steve says. “This is the first piece in the series.”

“But the galley’s showing paintings, right? How big?”

“Thirty-six by fifty-six inches,” Steve replies.

“This is ‘Brooklyn’. That’s you, isn’t it?” Tony points to Steve on the page.

“Yeah, and Bucky. I think his mom took the photo.” Steve begins to flip the page but Tony wraps his slender fingers around Steve’s hand. Tony looks at the image for a long time, as if trying to memorise every line. All the while, his fingers ooze a sort of muted softness that Steve craves for the moment Tony lets go.

On the next page, Peggy sits on grass. Her pale dress fans around her along with the pages of Virginia Wolfe in her hand. The ground beside her reads, “I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill.”

“London,” Tony immediately guesses correctly. “Primrose Hill. Regent’s Park. Who is she?”

“Old friend of mine. I took the photo years ago when I was in London with her,” Steve says, remembering the day like it was yesterday. Peggy is chances untaken, and a friendship he sorely misses. But she’s happy in Los Angeles and that’s what counts.

The next sketch is of Wanda Maximoff, Steve’s old classmate, dancing centre stage in a belly dancing costume with thick locks of dark hair flying out of control. “What country is this meant to be?”

“Well, none, in a way. Wanda’s Romani. But she was born in Sokovia,” Steve explains. If he closes his eyes, he can see the scarlet of the dress and the chocolate brown of her hair.

They flip through the next few in silence. There’s Ororo Munroe, relaxing on Mombasa beach in Kenya, and then Natasha. He points and grins, clearly recognising Kamala Khan, one of the part-time waitresses at Hawkeye’s. She is fully dressed in a shalwar kameez while waiting for a bus in Jersey, completely immersed in her comic book. There’s Amadeus, Sooraya and Logan, and Shang Chi mid round-house kick; there’s King T’challa on his throne.

“How the fuck did you meet the king of Wakanda?”

“Model UN. I did ask permission to use the image.”

Tony flips to the next page and finds a half sketch of him that Steve had done yesterday. The chin is off and the eyes aren’t right. So Steve takes the book back. “I’m working on it,” Steve mumbles.

Tony smiles at him. “So what, you take photos and then work on replicating them?”

“Sort of. I mean, Natasha was dancing in the gym, I made up the winter scene around her.”

“Okay, so then you need me to actually do something, don’t you?”

“But everything you do is Manhattan,” Steve blurts out. He knows that the sentence makes no sense but he has no other way to explain what he means. “I wanted to take some photos of you in the park…”

“But the Bugle got there first, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“How about the mansion? The mansion’s very Manhattan-y. Or the Tower. You can see the Empire State Building from the Tower. We’re obviously higher. Wait ‘til we’re done, we’ll be higher than One WTC.”

“Really?”

“Yep, wanna see?” Tony stands up.

“We’re supposed to be lying low.”

“And if I actually listen to something Pepper asks me to do, she’ll burst a blood vessel. We can go in the evening, have Happy bring over one of my less conspicuous cars after dinner,” Tony replies. “Now are you planning on taking photos of me being hot as fuck or what?”

-

They work well in silence. Tony is in his own extraordinary world, surrounded by the light of the holographic interface. Steve continues to photograph Tony, but it’s nigh on impossible to capture the true depth of Tony’s eyes digitally. He puts the camera down and grabs his sketchbook, but he fails. There is simply no way to render the cherry of his lips on charcoal.

He sticks to colour pencils for a while, but Tony’s all jagged edges and harsh angles, so he turns the page and grabs an ink pen. Tony _is ‘_ hot as fuck’, but it’s more than that.

Tony is beautiful. Steve finds Tony’s sharpness, but the ink pen fails him as the gentler parts of Tony reveal themselves to Steve — the hint of green veins under olive skin, the soft falling of his hair. 

When Tony ignores the rumbling of his stomach for the second time in a minute, Steve looks up at the clock. It’s two pm. Steve puts his pencil down, stretches his arms and then stands up. His fingers are starting to cramp. There’s no need to aggravate the carpal tunnel anyways; now is as good a time as any to stop for lunch.

Steve checks Leo’s food and water dispensers, then orders pizza. When it arrives, he sets it on the coffee table without words. Within a half hour, both their pies are finished. They keep working in comfortable silence — Tony sprawled on his belly with the tablet in front of him and Steve at the drawing table, chewing the ends of pencils that are too expensive to be suffering such an injustice.

Steve jerks awake at the warm hand on his shoulder, just as Tony says, “Steve, you need to rest.”

Steve sits back up on the chair and twists around to face Tony. “I don’t even have a final idea, Tony. I can’t rest yet,” Steve tells him even as Tony drags him onto his feet.

“Quick nap. Come on, better you sleep on the bed than on the chair,” Tony tells him. “I cannot believe you’re making me adult. I am really bad at adulting.”

“Clearly. Adulting is not a word,” Steve says as he gently pushes Tony’s arm away to stand on his own.

“Sure it is. Languages evolve Steve; don’t be stuck in the forties. You’ll catch polio, or worse, racism.”

“I’m not _that_ much older than you,” Steve mumbles, following Tony into the bedroom and crawling into bed. He sits up against the headboard, a much more comfortable location for the purpose of breathing. He’s used to sleeping while sitting when his lungs become uncooperative.

Leo, who’s under the bedspread, stretches and leaps out of the bed to come and cling to Tony’s leg. Tony flares his nose and lifts his leg, trying to shake Leo off, but gives up when nothing happens. Steve holds his arms out and Tony brings his leg to Steve so he can take Leo to use as a heat pack. Leo decides that he’s happy with his fate, putting his front paws up on Steve’s shoulders.

“It’s a good thing you’re adorable, Oppenheimer,” Tony tells Leo as he pulls the covers up higher.  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I took my allergy meds, Tony. It’s good,” Steve replies. The weight on his chest isn’t fun, but sitting up helps. “You don’t need to babysit me. Just set my alarm for five pm and I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not babysitting you. I wouldn’t even know what to do with kids,” Tony replies. “I’ll wake you at five.”

Steve closes his eyes, too tired to reply. Tony shuts the blinds and closes the curtains. He’s not sure he hears the last words, Tony’s dulcet tones whispering as he runs gentle fingers through Steve’s hair. “Oh boy, Anthony, you are so fucking screwed.”

-

When Steve wakes up, he’s alone in his room. He pulls on his bathrobe and heads into the kitchen, switching on the kettle. It whistles as Steve tears off a few fresh peppermint leaves from the plant and dumps it in his mug. Once the leaves are happily infusing the boiled water, Steve makes his way into the living room and finds his mother watching _Masterchef_ with Tony.

“Ma?”

“Shush!” Tony waves his hands at Steve. “Gordon’s about to lose his shit!”

Steve closes his mouth and comes to sit beside Ma, who presses her palm against his back, rubbing circles into his skin. “So I heard you had an attack yesterday.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “When will you and Bucky stop gossiping like a couple of teenagers?”

“After long discussion and consideration, we’ve come to the conclusion that the answer is never,” Ma tells him solemnly. “And what exactly is the point of having a doctor for a mother if you don’t use the opportunity for a free consult, eh?”

“Ma. You’re specialised in infectious diseases.”

“And she’s awesome at it. Do you know the longest word in the English language is a respiratory disease called pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis?” Tony asks. Steve rolls his eyes and nods. He’d learned that one when he was twelve. “Good. Now shush.”

Steve obediently closes his mouth and looks at Ma. “I like him,” she whispers to him in Irish Gaelic. “He’s not half as bad as the papers make him out to be.”

“That’s still pretty bad,” Tony replies in English, and Ma stares at him in shock.

“I had an Irish nanny once,” Tony explains. “Sarah Margaret Rogers, it is indubitably cruel of you to get me interested in a TV show and then talk incessantly the whole time.”

Ma rolls her eyes and leans in to rest her head on Steve’s shoulder.

-

“I love that woman,” Tony tells Steve after she’s left for her night shift.

“Well, she’s an actual gift from God, so I understand,” Steve says. He almost wavers before quietly saying, “You must miss your mom.”

“Not really,” Tony says with a shrug, keeping his eyes focused on the garlic he’s trying to peel. “Mother was more interested in the newest debutantes in Europe than me or dad. Jarvis knows me better. He raised me, I guess.”

“All I’m imagining now is a tiny Tony Stark making things explode and causing general havoc, and poor Jarvis trailing after you,” Steve says, because that’s a happier thought.

Tony grants him a small smile. “Let’s just say Jarvis would have a full head of hair if it weren’t for the last twenty years of putting up with me. I’m pretty sure the only reason he hasn’t retired is because he’s afraid the mansion will go up in flames.”

“He’s probably right,” Steve teases, and Tony blows garlic peels at Steve in response.

-

Steve has walked past the construction site of Stark Tower countless times. There is a café nearby that Steve has lost hours to sketching in as he’s watched the building slowly rise above everything else in sight from there.

Never in his wildest dreams did he expect to one day be standing in the unfurnished penthouse, looking at the Empire State Building glitter behind Tony as he leans on the glass wall facing it. Night may have fallen, but that means little to this city.

“So?” Tony asks. “What do you think?”

Steve bites his lip and nods. He’s not so good at words; what he sees can only be described in varying hues of colour. He’s only brought his camera so he clicks away. The lights are dimmed and the penthouse is unfinished, but the concrete floor under Tony’s bare feet is clean. Tony’s still in Steve’s clothes.

He finally looks complete.

It wasn’t just the medium that had been ill-fitting before, it was the location as well. While Tony seemed perfectly happy in Steve’s apartment, here he is like one of the gods of old entering their throne room.

This is where Tony Stark belongs, not stuck on the ground with mortals like Steve. People like Tony — as if there could be anything or anyone like Tony Stark — belong in the heavens.

“—anything I’m saying?” Tony asks.

“Shush,” Steve replies automatically. Now is not the time for talking. It’s the time to capture this moment in all its fragile, fleeting majesty.

Tony shakes his head, and looks out into the city. His lean frame faces the camera, but only the profile of his face is steered towards Steve. Brighter than the glitz and glam of Midtown is the steadfast light of the arc reactor. His fingers are plastered to the glass, fine-boned things Steve wants to kiss one by one.

There’s no point in denying his feelings for Tony anymore. Even in this dimly lit room, his heart has nowhere to hide.

Steve captures that last photograph and then turns off the camera. He has what he needs. He sits down to pack up the camera shakily. When he stands up, Tony’s still where he was, legs crossed and hip against the glass.

“You alright?” Tony asks. Steve nods jerkily.”Alright come on, Happy’ll drive you home.”

-

“Have a safe flight, Tony,” Steve says, as Happy slows the car down in front of the complex. Tony’s only flying on Monday, but they have no plans to meet tomorrow.

“I designed the plane. I’ll be fine,” Tony replies.

A pause.

“Good luck with the exhibition,” Tony says. “Though you don’t need it. You’re painting me, after all.”

Steve snorts. “Will the great Tony Stark make it to the exhibition?” He asks jokingly. He knows that Tony and Pepper have invitations, but whether Tony will actually come is a whole different question. “I mean, it’s okay if you can’t. I know the trial’s really important.”

“I’ll be there,” Tony says. He makes an abortive movement towards Steve. Before he can return to his seat though, Steve reaches over and hugs Tony, a quick, tight hug.

“I’ll see you soon, Tony,” Steve says, climbing out of the car.

-

The next week passes in various shades of grey. At some point, Coulson visits to check in on him, sees Steve at work, and leaves just as silently as he came. The only reason Steve is even aware of this happenstance is because he sees the note and the banana muffin on the kitchen island when he comes in to top up his coffee mug.

His phone dies by Wednesday, until Bucky storms in, connects the charges, and takes a nap on the couch in the studio, Leo wrapped around his prosthetic arm.

On Wednesday night, Tony calls him and rants about the lack of good pizza. Steve listens, though he has little to say considering the fact that he’s never been to Miami. Thursday morning, Pepper calls him and thanks him for keeping Tony from drinking. After that, Steve decides to check-in with Tony every night before bed. Whether it’s a short text to tell him how the painting’s coming along, or to tell him that Leo’s taking a winter holiday at the Stark Mansion.

Leo — the ungrateful son that he is — has escaped to the Stark Mansion to be spoiled by Jarvis. Steve — the awful parent that he is — only notices this when the call from Jarvis comes in. Jarvis — the ever patient saint that _he_ is — offers to watch Leo until the gallery opening. Steve decides that it may be the best possible action for the continuation of Leo’s healthy existence, so he squishes his pride like putty under his thumb and accepts the kind offer.

At the end of the week, Steve looks at his final sketches, and smiles. Next week, he’ll paint.

He spends Saturday morning cleaning his apartment and buying groceries. Then he rewards himself by catching up on _Dog Cops_. He ends up at Hawkeye’s after closing, eating way too much pie and listening to Sam and Bucky talk about wedding plans while Natasha challenges Clint to vodka shots. Sharon, Peggy’s sister and FBI hotshot, has finally gotten an evening off to catch up with the rest of them. She’s falling asleep on Steve’s shoulder when his phone begins vibrating in his pocket. He looks at the screen, and it blinks back _Tony Stark_ at him.

“Put the phone down, slowly and nobody has to get hurt,” Sharon tells him with a grin on her face.

“I’m not breaking any laws, Agent Carter,” Steve tells her. “Just because you get scouted by the Feds. Someone needs to come and knock you down a Peg _.”_

After collective groans, and a nudge in Steve’s ribs with her pointy elbow, Sharon says, “Peggy’s on my side, Steve.”

“If that isn’t your mother on the line, put it the hell down,” Bucky orders. Steve rolls his eyes and puts his phone to his ear.

“Hey Tony.” Big mistake. Eyebrows raise all around the table. Steve ignores them and pours himself into a nearby loveseat.

“So chilli dogs in Miami suck too. I can’t believe I used to live here, what was wrong with Dad? HQ should be in New York, it would save me so much trouble. Or DC. Now they have these amazing dogs, Ben’s. Oh Ben’s Chilli Bowl. Have you been? If not I’m taking you there for the chilli dogs. Miami is clearly not known for its food culture, did you have dinner yet, what did you have? No don’t tell me, I’ll only get jealous. No I gotta know. I’m a masochist, hit me.”

“Shepherd’s Pie. I’m at Hawkeye’s. Have you eaten anything today?”

“No, but I’ve got a bottle of whiskey and by the time I’m done with it, I’ll likely have overshot my required daily calorie count.”

Steve sits up, spine shot straight. “Tony.”

“I haven’t started yet. I’m considering it. I thought I’d cleared out the mansion you know, but I hid one in a toolbox with a Snickers bar — the limited edition hazelnut kind. They’re alright. I like the original better though.”

“I like the hazelnut better.” Steve says. “You should order some food.”

“I’ll bring it back for you then,” Tony promises, and there’s a rustling sound from the phone.

“Where are you?”

“Balcony, there’s an ocean under me, no manatees though,” Tony says. “Manatees are fucking ugly and I don’t know why people are trying to save them.”

“Why are you on the balcony?” Steve’s shaky voice betrays just how terrified and helpless he feels. “Tony, talk to me.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not trying to kill myself. That shit’s for teenage me,” Tony says casually as Steve’s eyes blur. “I’m trying to pour it down the fucking ocean, Steve.”

“Good,” Steve says as he remembers to breathe again.

“I don’t want to though. I can smell it. I just need a sip. A little one.”

“What happened, Tony?” Steve asks.

Nothing.

“Tony, are you there?”

“He fucking killed my parents, Steve,” Tony screams into the phone. “He put the hit out on them and cut their brakes, and then he stood beside me at the funeral and put his arm around me and took care of me! Who fucking does that?”

Steve closes his eyes and lets the tears fall for Tony. “I don’t know, Tony. I don’t know what to say to that, but I’m so sorry.”

“He walked out of the courthouse in cuffs and laughed at me, Steve. He fucking laughed at me. He was family. He bought me my first drink. Wonder if he knew I’d end up a drunk like my old man.”

“You didn’t. Six months, Tony. You’ve made it six months. You can beat this. Don’t let him win, don’t you dare,” Steve’s voice comes out a lot firmer than he feels on the inside. Tony doesn’t reply, just breathes heavily into the phone.

“He’s going to prison for the rest of his life.”

“Good,” Steve replies. “Are you coming back to New York?”

“Not yet. I have to deal with the company fall out. Pepper’s been doing damage control, but there’s only so much she can do.”

“Is she staying with you?”

“No, she has her own place.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m not. I’m talking to you.”

“Tony, can you do this for me? Throw that bottle away, order some food, eat, and then go to bed. I’ll stay on the line if you want,” Steve tells him gently.

“I don’t need you to baby me.”

“Good. I have no experience with children. I’ve been told I’m a great friend though.”

Tony makes a sound that’s either a laugh or a sob. “Okay. Hold on.”

A minute or so later, Tony says, “There. All gone. Now it’s just poisoning manatees, hopefully. Thai or Mexican? It’ll be shitty either way.”

 “Thai. Try to remember you’re lactose-intolerant, please. Okay, call them and then call me back.”

When he gets back to his friends, Bucky’s the only one who catches the look on Steve’s face. “Everything okay?”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s a long story. I’ve got to head home. Good night, everyone.”

Tony calls him when he’s halfway home, and Steve listens to him talk about food and cars and everything under the sun. Steve puts the phone on speaker when he gets home, changing into pyjamas before climbing into bed. He falls asleep listening to Tony’s deep breaths, and wakes up to the same enrapturing sound.

-

And so the days pass by. Steve preps his canvas, blocks out his basic shapes, and begins painting ‘Manhattan’. He listens to Tony talk about the idiots he’s forced to work with while brushing strokes of Chinese carmine on his lips. If Steve closes his eyes, he can see the pitch black of Tony’s hair, the olive of his skin, the thick curling of his eyelashes.

Leo comes home a few times, mainly to demand cuddles and belly rubs before returning to his new domain once again. Steve visits the mansion as well, being served coffee by Jarvis, who, no matter what Steve says, refuses to sit down.

Steve sits in the living room one such day, Leo having allowed him to pet him, breathing in the scent of Tony and missing him with an inexplicable ferociousness considering how long they have known each other.

 _I have romantic feelings for Tony,_ Steve finally confesses to himself in that big old house. Tony doesn’t have feelings for him. Tony needs a friend, and that’s what Steve is going to be. It hurts now, but Tony’s friendship is worth it. Denying the feelings isn’t going to get him anywhere, especially not towards closure.

Maybe the painting will help.

-

It doesn’t.

Every stroke of paint only highlights the things about Tony that Steve likes — his futuristic visions, his smiles, his natural elegance.

-

Two weeks later on a Thursday morning, the very day before the opening, the painting is lit by the rising sun. Steve, who has his brush ready with fresh paint, drops it.

Coulson picks up on the first ring.

“It’s done,” Steve tells him. “I’ll bring it over when it’s dry.”

Then he takes a quick, hot shower, pulls on a pair of boxers and falls asleep within minutes.

-

When Steve awakens a few hours later, it’s to the sound of Bucky and Sam’s voices. He grabs his bathrobe and follows the noises into the kitchen.

“This self-imposed isolation is officially over, and we are sick of being ignored,” Sam tells Steve as he makes a plate full of sandwiches. “Your job until tomorrow morning is to eat some food and relax.”

“No, I have to get to the gallery—”

“—Coulson texted you. He has everything under control. He says if you show up before nine am, he _will_ use his Taser on you.” Bucky tells him, showing him Steve’s lit-up cell phone screen. 

“Since when do you guys think you can just go through my phone?” Steve asks, snatching it back from him. Then he sneezes.

“Since I had to come over to charge it for you,” Bucky replies. “I am genuinely disappointed that of the hundreds of pics you have sent Tony over the last few weeks, not a single one was even remotely racy.”

“Bucky!”

“Go get dressed, Steve,” Sam orders, elbowing Bucky at the same time. “And hang that suit up. It’s for tomorrow.”

“When did you—”

“I picked it up on Monday for dry cleaning,” Bucky says. “You promised me a steak dinner in return.”

“I have zero recollection of this,” Steve says.

“In that case you promised both of us steaks,” Sam tells him with a shit-eating grin. “And where’s your hellcat? I haven’t been mauled once.”

“Steve, did you forget to feed him? He’ll fall underweight again!” Bucky, for all his complaining, loves Leo like a father his oldest child — not outwardly, but deeply. “I knew I should have checked in with you every day, he’s not a toy, Steve.”

“Please stop treating me like your child, it’s a little creepy. And I know he’s not a toy,” Steve says. He feels guilty enough about it without Bucky telling him. The whole point of having automatic feeding and water dispensers is to make sure Leo’s fed and watered even if Steve happens to forget. “He’s fine. He’s at the mansion.”

“He escaped? _Again?”_

“Jarvis feeds him fresh tuna and salmon. And lamb! Three times a day! I can’t even begin to compete with that!”

“Maybe if we’re lucky, Tony will adopt him,” Sam tells Bucky in a conspiratorial voice.

“Maybe if we’re _really_ lucky, Tony’ll adopt both of them,” Bucky says, nudging Sam with a grin.

Steve reaches over to flick Bucky’s ear. “We’re just friends.”

“In that case, Sam and I are just friends too,” Bucky shoots back.

“Wait, why did no one tell me you _slept_ with Tony?” Sam asks, putting down the bread knife he was using to cut the sandwiches into triangles.

“I did _not_!” Steve says with more force that is probably necessary. “Tony’s a flirt. You’ve met him! He flirts with everyone!”

“And everything,” Sam says.

“Come again?”

“He flirted with my arm. Sam’s completely charmed,” Bucky explains.

“Can we _please,_ just… stop?” Steve begs. It’s hard enough trying to keep Tony inside the friend box in his head, the last thing he needs is more teasing from his friends. “I have the biggest opening of my life tomorrow!”

Sam fixes him with a scrutinising look, and finally shrugs. “Okay. Truce until tomorrow night. Bucky?”

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly. “But now here’s a harder decision to make — _Masterchef,_ or _Mind of a Chef?”_

Steve looks up to the ceiling and recites the Hail Mary silently. “Why is everyone in my life addicted to cooking shows?”

“Because none of us can cook, and Gordon Ramsay is really hot,” Sam tells him as he leads the way to the living room. Steve follows with his own plate of sandwiches, squeezing into the sofa to Bucky’s right side.

Steve’s hunger hits him only after the first bite. He eats four sandwiches halves before he realises he’s cleaned his plate, and even eaten out of Bucky’s plate. Bucky just grins at him when Steve catches his eye. “Gotcha.”

Steve just elbows him and hands his plate to Bucky.

Speaking requires too much energy. The first time that Steve’s head drops to Bucky’s shoulder, he moves out of the way and shakes Steve.

“I’m awake, damn it. Go away,” Steve grumbles. Bucky’s shoulder is nice and warm, Steve never wants to get up.

“Go to bed, punk,” Bucky says gently. “You’ve a long day ahead of you.”

Usually he’d complain about Bucky carrying him to his bed, but to be honest, he’s too tired to open his mouth right now, and he’s too cosy to complain even if he could. 

-

Steve wakes up to his alarm and immediately reaches for Leo. After a moment of frantic searching, Steve remembers that Leo’s staying at the Stark Mansion. It’s still dark, but there are a hundred things to be done before a new gallery opening. The last exhibition would have been taken down yesterday, which gives them all of today to put into action the plans he’d finalised with Phil months ago.

Steve pulls on a pair of old jeans, a warm pullover and a big loopy scarf while his trusty old coffee machine brews him extra bitter sludge. He fills up a flask and sets to packing the painting while calling a cab.

He checks his phone on the way, and among a few messages from Bucky, his Ma and Phil, is a short one from Tony. It reads: _stuck in meetings all day, so u better wow me tonight with that opening of urs, steven._

Steve smiles and quickly texts back, _just be there._

Steve arrives at eight am sharp, smile still stuck on his face. Phil’s already there at the front entrance with two signature purple paper cups from Hawkeye’s. 

“Oh I should have asked,” Phil says, looking at Steve’s nearly empty flask of coffee.

“Nope, you’re right on target,” Steve says. He chugs the rest of his coffee, dumps the flask in his messenger bag, and gladly takes the paper cup from Phil. “Thank you. You’re a Godsend.”

-

The hours pass by worryingly quickly. There are still at least seventeen things to be done but it’s five in the afternoon and Steve’s sweaty and gross from moving things around. Clint passes by with coffee and a fresh suit for Phil, who’s staying here to shower and change. Then Kamala and Darcy show up, steal Steve’s to do list, and kick him out of the gallery.

Steve takes the subway back and finds Natasha in his apartment, dressed to the nines and watching _Kitchen Nightmares_. He knows better than to ask her how she got in. “Who the hell is running your café right now?”

“Kate Bishop,” Natasha answers. “Clint trusts her. She’s dragged those twin friends of hers and a bunch of kids from college to help out. If the building burns down, we have insurance.”

After much arguing, Steve agrees to let her help him get ready, an act which ends with half a can of hairspray in his hair and a fancy looking tie knot. “ _Now_ you look like a respectable member of the New York art scene.”

“What did I look like before?”

“A crazy cat person,” she replies, running a finger over Steve’s eyebrow.

-

The gallery itself has a maze-like structure. Natasha’s been here before as well, so they sneak through the private entrance and into the foyer. Sam is already among the spectators of the ‘Brooklyn’ painting. A familiar metal arm catches his elbow from behind. “This is some turn out, Stevie.”

Steve turns around to give Bucky a tight hug. “Hey jerk, you been here a while? Did you do a round yet?”

“Nope. I wanted to see you first. And I can’t get Sam away from ‘Brooklyn’.” Bucky gives Natasha a quick hug.

“Well come on then, I’ll show you,” Steve says, leading them into the maze. “We’ll come back for Sam.”

They lose Natasha when they find Pepper Potts. Apparently, Natasha had been a summer intern at Stark during her MBA days. “Let’s just say that she put a healthy fear of Romanoff in Tony,” Pepper tells Steve.

Steve nods, trying very hard not to ask about Tony, whom he hasn’t seen so far. “Thank you for coming.”

“Steve, it’s my genuine pleasure. Your work is brilliant. I’m a huge fan of ’Manhattan’. And ‘Moscow’,” Pepper says, smiling at Natasha.

Oh.

Bucky and Steve share a grin as Pepper leads Natasha away. Bucky heads towards the next painting and Steve follows. The two people whose opinions matter the most in the world to Steve are Bucky and Ma. 

When they reach the end, Bucky freezes. This one was just barely touch dry when he’d dropped it off. Steve hasn’t even varnished it, but it’s still his favourite. 

“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Bucky whispers.

“Yes, he is,” Steve breathes, gazing at the .

Bucky jerks back. “I heard that, young man.”

Steve keeps his eyes on the painting, cheeks and ears burning. “We have a truce.”

“Yeah, yeah. Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“I told you so.”

“What?”

“I always did. You were going places. Now look at you. Solo art show and all the works. It’s amazing.” Bucky smiles at him, and Steve pulls him into another hug, holding him tightly.

They let go only when Phil finds him. “I need you. Now.”

Any further thought is wiped from his mind as he is led to a group of private collectors and spends the next half hour explaining his methods. Then he gives a quote to a messy-haired photographer by the name of Peter Parker, who, despite working for _The Daily Bugle_ , is kind enough not to pester him about his connection to Tony.

Tony, who’s still not around. 

Natasha comes to say good bye, and pulls him close. “So how long have you been nursing that crush? Since you interned?” he asks her.

“The eternal single does not get to judge me,” Natasha says. Steve laughs at that. “We’re just going out for drinks. And good work, Rogers. I’ll see you around.” Natasha kisses his cheek and begins to leave with Pepper. “And your mom was looking for you!”

“Okay, thanks.” Steve waves good bye and then begins scanning the dwindling crowd. It’s not as busy as it was; most people are starting to leave. Phil’s already in the office, getting an early start on the paperwork for the sold paintings. Still, a couple of people are missing.

“Looking for me?” Steve turns around and Ma’s looking at him with an amused smile.  Her blonde hair, usually tied up in a messy bun, hits her shoulder in elegant locks. She’s wearing a simple white blouse with a yellow skirt; grace flowing in waves from her small frame in a way that it never does on Steve’s own. “I saw you talking to a boatload of people before, so I figured I’d wait until you had a breather before you had to go through all of that again for your old Ma.”

“Well, my lady, may I show you around?” Steve extends his arm and Ma laughs before taking it. She laughs the moment she sees ‘Brooklyn’. “There’s so much New York in your blood, baby.”

Ma stops at each painting and listens to Steve explain, whether it is about Natasha’s years with the Russian ballet, or of Kamala’s dreams of becoming a writer clashing with her Pakistani parent’s expectations. Soon, they reach ‘Manhattan’. Steve begins to explain, but Ma holds up her hand and studies the painting quietly. She then turns back to look at Steve. “Has he seen this?”

“No,” Steve swallows. “I think he’s stuck in Miami.”

“I’m sorry,” Ma says. “He’s missing something special.”

“It’s alright,” Steve says. Tony’s a busy man. He might hang out at Steve’s place and hide from his CEO, but that doesn’t mean he has all the time in the world, especially for someone he only met a few months ago.

“You wear your heart on your sleeve, Steve,” Ma tells him.

Before Steve can defend himself, Clint walks in. “Everyone else has left, and there’s champagne, come on.”

Even Phil comes back down from the office. Darcy and Kamala are sitting down on the floor, rubbing the soles of their feet. Sam and Bucky are standing close together, talking in subdued tones.

“Okay, this is going to get messy,” Clint says with a grin, a champagne bottle in his hands.

“No, no it isn’t, there are very expensive paintings on the walls, Clint.” Phil takes the bottle carefully from his husband as the others laugh.

From the corner of his eye, Steve catches a circle of white shining in through the glass walls before it slowly begins to fade into the humdrum of the city. For a second, Steve thinks it’s just another car light, but it moves too slowly.

“Wait wait wait,” Steve tells Phil. “Just hold on, I’ll be right back.” Steve runs out the front entrance and takes off in the direction of the light. It’s no longer facing him, but Steve has drawn that frame too many times for him to be wrong. 

“Tony?”

Tony turns around slowly, looking at Steve with an expression of defeat in his eyes. “Hey.”

“What’re you doing? Come in.” Steve jerks his head towards the gallery.

“I’m too late,” Tony says distraughtly.

“Lucky for you, I know the curator,” Steve tells him. Tony doesn’t move.

“I had to deal with something in the lab. I wanted to come earlier. And now I’ve missed it.” Tony sounds so genuinely frustrated that Steve takes that final step, and reaches over to wrap his arms around Tony’s waist. Tony doesn’t hug back until Steve begins to pull away, and then slowly wraps his arms around Steve.

“It’s alright,” Steve tells him. “You’re here now. The paintings aren’t going anywhere. And the door’s open so if you want to come and see, here’s your chance for a private show.”

-

“Tony!” Clint shouts as they walk in together, throwing an arm over Tony’s shoulder.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Coulson.” Tony acknowledges everyone with a wide, far too charming smile. Steve walks in behind him, and ignores the winks Bucky _and_ his mother shoot in Steve’s direction.

“This is a new level of fashionably late,” Phil tells him.

“I’m a Stark, we live to aggravate,” Tony says, eyeing the champagne.

“Shall I give you a tour?” Steve asks, steering Tony towards the beginning of the exhibit.

“No that’s fine. I can look on my own. Go, drink to your success and all that. Find me when you’re done.”

Tony walks towards ‘Brooklyn’, leaving everyone with their poured glasses. Phil hands Steve a flute, and raises his own in the air. “I can’t believe we actually did it, but here we are. To Steve Rogers, the only painter I know who finished a painting the day before it’s meant to be shown.”

“To idiots who forget the world when they’re holding a paintbrush,” Bucky ribs, holding his drink up.

“To my Ma, who bought me my first set of watercolours when I was six, even if it meant saying goodbye to her pristine white walls.” Steve raises his flute. “To Bucky and Sam, and actually, every single one of you here for keeping me from starvation and dehydration.”

“Amen to that,” Phil says, and they all raise their glasses.

-

A little while later Bucky and Sam take off for Brooklyn — the borough, not the painting — with Ma, each of them a strong tower to her left and right. Clint decides to drive Kamala and Darcy home, and Phil passes Steve the keys.

And suddenly it’s just Steve, dimmed lights and Tony who’s somewhere in the gallery. Steve puts away the empty bottles and champagne flutes, and then downs a glass of water. There’s no need to tempt Tony with the smell of alcohol. Then Steve begins the path into the maze. Steve runs a finger over Bucky’s hair, Kamala’s red scarf, T’Challa’s crown, as he passes the paintings, until he reaches the very end.

And then stops.

Tony’s frozen in front of the painting of himself against the bright lights of Manhattan.

When Tony turns around, Steve understands what his Ma meant by wearing his heart on his sleeve, because Tony can be an oblivious genius, but even he sees the pathetic longing that bleeds from the canvas. Tony walks slowly towards Steve and Steve takes a few steps back until suddenly he’s pressed up against the wall.

Tony is inches away.

Their hips graze each other’s tentatively. Tony’s lips are an enthralling shade of rose, a hint darker than the pink of his tongue as it licks across his lower lip. Steve follows the movement in awe.

“Is that how you see me?” Tony asks, his voice a bare whisper. Steve nods.

Tony moves first, carefully cupping Steve’s face with both hands. He leans in until they’re trading air with every breath. Tony’s eyes are so warm and full of wonder — as if he can’t believe that they’ve come to this — Steve can’t bear looking away. Hope sparks inside of him, a little light, begging to be set on fire. Tony licks his lips again and Steve takes a small step of faith — a crawl, really — and brings their mouths together. Tony gasps, eyelids closing along with Steve’s own as his fingers press insistently against his jaw.

The kiss stays chaste, but it’s kindling just the same and Steve’s blood catches afire. He brings his arms over Tony’s shoulders and pulls him closer, gasping as it brings their erections together.

Steve should pull away, be the older, responsible one here, and have them take it slowly. He should push Tony off of him instead of tugging him closer, but now that they’ve touched, Steve can’t imagine letting go.

It’s when Tony begins smoothing his hands down his neck, his chest, and begins reaching for the buckle of his jeans, that Steve forces himself to pull away. Temptation is the sight of Tony’s kiss-swollen lips, and Steve leans forward to steal one more kiss before he truly pulls away. Tony looks up at him with a silent plea and words fail Steve. He wants to tell Tony to slow down, explain that according to all convention, they’re moving too fast, but this feels right. Steve swallows, and answers with a nod.

Cherry red lips curve in a smirk and in a single fluid movement, Tony’s on his knees, pressing his mouth over his tenting slacks. Steve’s hips tremble, his fingers dig into the flesh of his palm trying not to thrust. It’s been so long, and he’s wanted Tony so badly. Tony looks up at Steve with those big eyes of his as he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his slacks and boxers in one pull. There’s the rustle of a condom wrapper being opened, and then Tony’s rolling it onto Steve with careful fingers.

Steve cups Tony’s face with one hand, thumb resting on his cheek. Steve wants to tell him how beautiful he is, how lovely he looks, and how much Steve wants him. More importantly, how much Steve feels for him. But words aren’t needed. One look at Steve and Tony seems to know exactly what he’s thinking, because Tony lets out a half-sob before pressing his forehead to Steve’s thigh. Steve sinks his other hand into Tony’s downy hair, and Tony breathes raggedly at that, Tony’s arousal pressed up against Steve’s leg.

It’s too much, and Steve has to look away when Tony takes him wholly into his mouth. Only, there’s no escape. In front of him is the image of Tony that he had carefully crafted with colour and affection. In the painting, Tony wears Steve’s clothes, like a terribly-kept secret screaming to the world that he belongs somewhere, _with_ someone. With Steve.

Steve comes with a groan, his knees giving out on him.

When Steve returns to himself, he’s on the floor with Tony’s head nestled under his chin, his fingers running absentmindedly through Tony’s hair. Steve reaches for Tony, but Tony waves the hand away. “It’s okay.”

“I want to,” Steve says earnestly.

 “I believe you. I came when you did.”

“ _Really?”_ Steve asks, sneaking his hand up Tony’s shirt and up against lean muscle. God, what he’d do to see that happen.  

“Shut up,” Tony mumbles, his lips moving against Steve’s clavicle.

Steve laughs, pressing a gentle kiss into his hair. “I missed you.”

“I can see that. I really am a great model, aren’t I?”

Steve snorts. “Meh, I’ve had better. You’re terrible at staying still.”

“Whatever, you like me,” Tony says casually. Too casually.

Steve reaches for Tony’s jaw line, tilting his head up so Steve can kiss him thoroughly. Tony gives in willingly, sweetly, and Steve gives just as much of himself back. When he pulls away, Tony’s staring at him, dazed, eyes unfocused. Steve cups his face and waits for clarity to return. “I do like you Tony. I like you a lot.”

-

They end up at the mansion with Tony sprawled on top of Steve on the couch. Gordon Ramsay’s teaching a little girl how to fix her cake, and Leo’s dozing on Tony’s kidneys. Steve’s palm lays splayed against the arc reactor. It’s surprisingly cold. Tony’s breathing is deep and slow. Steve isn’t surprised that he’s fallen asleep. After all, Tony had spent the day with investors and idiot engineers galore, and then on an airplane. He must have been exhausted, and still he’d come directly to see Steve’s gallery opening.

“What are you doing over the weekend?” Tony asks. Okay, still awake then.

“Clean the apartment. Sleep,” Steve says.

“You could hire someone to do that, you know. The cleaning part,” Tony says and Steve rolls his eyes.

“I have a two-bedroom apartment. I really don’t need someone to do the cleaning for me, Tony,” Steve replies. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I got these tickets to the intrepid museum, I think they got an old Stark jet or some other thing from the Maria Stark Foundation. They keep sending me free shit.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“They have the Starfleet Academy Experience, Steven. And don’t think I didn’t see your complete _Next Generation_ Blue-ray collection.”

Steve grins. “It’s NG or bust, Tony. And I'd love to. It’s a date.”

 

_Six months later…_

 

Steve winces at his reflection in the mirror, and then unties the bowtie. Why do people wear bowties? It’s completely unnecessary. In fact, why do people wear ties in general? They don’t serve any sort of purpose, as far as Steve can see.

“What do you think?”

Steve turns around and finds Tony at the door of their shared bedroom. Steve breathes in sharply. Tony looks stunning in everything, but Steve doesn’t know anyone who can pull off a three-piece slate suit as well as Tony, not even Phil. He looks impeccable.

Steve wants nothing more than to pull him apart. He walks forward, brushing Tony’s hair back with one hand. Tony smacks his hand away. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get it to look this good?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but lets Tony steal a quick kiss anyway. “Yes Tony, I’ve seen your little act in front of the mirror at least a hundred times.”

“So you should know better by now, Steven,” Tony says. “And what the hell are you doing with that bowtie?”

“I have no idea,” Steve says, looking up to the ceiling in exasperation.

Nimble fingers reach for the bow tie and begin to tie it. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, babe. I’m going to go find Pepper; the caterers aren’t even here and if the cake doesn’t get here soon, there will be hell to pay. Or at least purgatory.”

“Stop pestering Pepper, Tony.”

“I’m not pestering her, this is a very important day—“

“Yes, Tony. The most important. And she knows that, so let Pepper do her thing.” Steve holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

-

The garden is lush, the proud handiwork of Jarvis. Leo’s darling tree is even adorned with azaleas. Bucky and Sam are sitting at a bench talking to Tony’s best friend Rhodey, who’s actually managed shore leave. Leo’s wearing a bowtie as well and Bucky’s holding him tight in his arms, preventing him from hacking at Sam. Tony makes a beeline for Pepper the moment Steve lets go of his arm.

Bucky stands up, leaving Sam and Rhodey to their intense discussion and walks towards Steve with Leo. “That man is insane, you know that right?”

Steve grins. “I know.”

“I cannot believe you let him talk you into this.”

“I know.”

 “You ready for this?” Bucky asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” Steve replies, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. He takes Leo in his arms.     

Once everyone’s seated, Steve meets Tony at the end of the aisle. Tony shoots him a mildly manic, mostly cheerful smile, which Steve returns. Then they begin their walk down the aisle. When they reach the front row, Steve turns to see Ma smiling at him. He smiles back before leaning in to kiss her cheek. He turns back to find Tony smiling softly at him. Steve has to force himself not to reach over and kiss Tony, remind him how beloved he is.

Phil stands at the base of the tree, and nods at the two of them as they stand in front of him. “Dear friends and family, we are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of Leonardo Oppenheimer da Sneezi and Treebeard Stark in marriage…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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